To Fail Expectations
by Ranowa Hikura
Summary: AU of Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark. Lassiter ends up having to talk Shawn into doing something other than dying on the forest floor, and everything ends with a very uncomfortable and awkward heart to heart moment between them. Three-shot.
1. Chapter 1

When I started writing this, I didn't expect to write to completion. I expected to blow off some steam and move on. But, whether it was the three exams I should've been studying for instead, the seven papers I should've been writing, or the stress of planning two trips abroad in three months, the stress made me able to fly through this to the finish. I figured, hey, might as well post it, even if the fanfiction-dom is near its last legs. Enjoy, everyone :)

 **Important:** I cut the original setting up of the AU because it was trash. I tried to explain it here anyway, but to make sure it's not confusing: rather than running up into the gas station in the ep, Shawn figures out the gas station is the homebase for the criminals and goes for the pay phone outside instead. He manages to call Lassie before he gets seen and runs back into the woods, but gets shot again in the process.

AU of Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark. Lassiter ends up having to talk Shawn into doing something other than dying on the forest floor, and everything ends with a very uncomfortable and awkward heart to heart moment between them. Three-shot.

* * *

Lassiter stared at the phone in his hand, agape and in shock.

Of course, this was just the type of thing _Spencer_ would do.

Vanish in the middle of the night leaving only blood and a shell casing behind, text them garbled garbage of text speak jargon as their only clue, then call out of the blue when he was supposed to be kidnapped and give them a set of bullshit instructions- then bolt and suddenly drop the call out of nowhere, leaving them dangling off a pay phone in god-knew-wheresville. All they were able to hear after the questionably psychic psychic had stopped talking were three gunshots.

One right after the other. Bang, bang, bang; an ear-splitting crack echoed thrice over static- and in the sky.

Whoever was shooting at Spencer was close enough that they could hear the shots.

(And, by the look on the Henry's face, whoever that person was was soon to get shot himself. From behind. In the head.)

"Shawn?! _Shawn!"_ Henry shouted desperately into the phone, but it was no use; wherever his son was, he wasn't sitting there still on the phone to get shot at. Swearing, the man snapped the phone shut with another force to break it and jumped out of the car, turning in the direction of the shots in alarm. _"SHAWN!"_

Lassiter jumped out as well, leaving the door open and withdrawing his weapon. "Will you shut up?!" he hissed, reaching him just in time to stop him bursting out into a sprint down the road. "Whoever's chasing him could hear you!"

Henry whirled on him- and by the look on his face, angry papa bear was close to shooting him, as well. Anything that stood between angry papa bear and cub had to go- crazy, lunatic, man-child of a cub- and right now, Henry probably saw him as nothing more than an unnecessary nuisance. "Then you got any better ideas, Detective, because we're running out of options here! My son is out there, getting _shot at!_ There's no time to call any damn backup; we have to move now!"

Swearing, Lassiter glanced back at the forest, then towards the direction of the gunshots. By the sound of it, Spencer was on the opposite side of the forest as they were. Of course, the most inconvenient location possible. "We're going to have to split up," he decided reluctantly, and turned himself towards the forest. As the only one with a weapon, he'd be the one to go hunting. "Spencer said he'd be headed in there- I'll start looking. You take the car; drive around after the gunshots. Once I find him I'll call you, try and meet up to get the hell out of this place." He cocked his weapon, grinding his teeth in rising adrenaline at the chase that was to come. "Call o'Hara in the meantime; explain to her what's going on and get some backup out here, but no sirens, got that?! If they realize cops are out here this could turn into an outright firefight."

Henry scowled, but it was evident whatever the fastest path to resolving this was the one he was going to take, risky as all hell or not. It took him all of three seconds to circle the car and jump into the driver's seat- reaching into the glove compartment as he did so.

"Hey, Spencer, what're you-"

"What?" the old man huffed, loading the spare gun in an instant and revving the engine. "You think I don't know where you keep your backups? Come on, let's go!"

"That gun wasn't for you, I can't let a civilian- _Spencer!"_

It was too late- the elder Spencer was gone.

Lassiter groaned.

That entire family existed only to drive him absolutely insane.

Shaking his head in the chaos, and with barely more than a deep breath to prepare himself, Lassiter took off into the forest. His gun was at the ready, and he was more than eager to shoot. The dammed psychic should've known better than to get himself shot; what, the _spirits_ hadn't bothered to bestow that vision on him? And, holy hell was he angry at Spencer for stumbling into the barrel of a gun- but even that didn't stop him from being ready to take out the punk who'd shot him.

"If anyone gets to shoot Spencer," he growled under his breath, "it's me."

Lassiter moved through the shadowed woods, searching as fast as he could for any sign of the wayward psychic. Spencer was likely running his direction as fast as he could- if that phone call hadn't ended in him getting shot again. The thought sent a chill down his spine, and, gripping his weapon even tighter, he continued to search.

There were no further gunshots, and Lassiter didn't know if that was good or bad. If it was good, it was only marginally so; it meant Spencer had managed to get far enough away from whoever was chasing him that firing after him was no longer possible. If it was bad...

 _If it's bad, then that means they caught up to Spencer, and he's either tied up in the back of a car somewhere, or he's dead._

It it was bad, then it was _very_ bad.

Swallowing dryly, Lassiter continued to search.

He moved for at least an hour; he knew because he checked his phone at least every five minutes, in hope of a text, or a call, or- anything at all, giving him an update on the chaos. Never mind that he had about a snowball's chance in hell of getting a signal out here. Never mind that, in all likelihood, _he_ was going to be the one to find Spencer. It made him uneasy to be cut off from his partner and dispatch like this; couldn't call for backup, Henry- by all rights, a civilian- going after armed whackjobs, his maniac of a son already having made the same mistake and now wandering around out here someone bleeding to death... this situation, by any way of looking at it, made him anxious. And Carlton Lassiter was not a man who felt anxious often. Anxious meant he had left something unchecked; anxious meant he had slipped up somewhere.

 _Slipped up the day I let a loose cannon civilian 'psychic' stumble into my investigations is more like it,_ he thought stubbornly. And never dammed mind that Spencer had solved this case before him.

* * *

It had been two hours since Lassiter had entered the forest, moving as fast as he dared to and not risk missing evidence, when he jogged breathlessly around yet another twisted in the corner in the path. What was waiting for him there was, simply put, not more dead leaves, wet moss, or slick mud.

It was closer to something that could've given him a heart attack, if he was the type of man to keel over at the unexpected.

Because the sight of Shawn Spencer, draped across the path like a wet blanket, slumped in a pool of his own blood, and pale enough to be dead was quite possibly the worst thing Lassiter had seen all day.

The only thing rivaling it was when the nonsense of Spencer's text message had been translated, and they'd realized he'd been shot.

Lassiter held his position for a moment, shock rooting him to the spot. It was only the sound of a gunshot cracking in an echo around the forest that jerked him out of paralyzed disbelief, and he burst into a dash that was perilously close to panic.

"Spencer- God-" He dropped to his knees (ruining his suit for the bastard), pulling the psychic onto his back through the alarm that rose like bile. "Spencer!" Still nothing; no twitch in slack lips, no flicker of closed eyes, not even a whimper of pain when Lassiter shook him again, struggling to rouse him. "Damn it!"

He sat back, breathing hard, then forced himself out of shock and instead began the search for bullet wounds. The psychic's shirt was dirty, blood stains a mess everywhere he looked; he'd never find the source this way, and without pause he ripped the thing off- barely more than a rag by this point anyway- and at last found the source of the damage.

There was an ugly wound in his shoulder, clearly hours old and obviously untreated. It had to have been the injury that had prompted the first text message. For once, he couldn't judge Spencer too harshly; the last thing on his mind when on the run from armed psychopaths was caring for flesh wounds like this. But even flesh wounds should be taken care of to some degree, especially when sprinting through a muddy forest like Spencer had been- infection was practically guaranteed by this point.

But it was barely bleeding. Blood loss, no matter how slow, over such an extended period of time, was definitely a concern, but there was no way this was the reason Spencer had passed out when he'd still been in so much danger.

That was when he saw the other wound.

Lower right abdomen. Below the ribcage; near the hip. A dark red, sticky mess of fresh blood- the definite source of most of it from the shirt. And by the looks of it, recent.

Very recent.

 _Those gunshots earlier..._

Lassiter ripped his jacket off, pressing it against the wound with all of his weight. Most of it was saturated within seconds and he swallowed, alarm only increasing. The shot couldn't have hit anything vital; they'd heard the gunshots over two hours ago. Shawn would've been dead by now. _Shawn. Shawn?! Spencer._ But at this rate, there wasn't long before he bled out.

"Spencer!" he hissed again, shaking the psychic in another attempt to wake him up. _"Spencer!"_

But his frustration was in vain. Spencer was well and truly out.

Taking a breath, Lassiter glanced worriedly around them then pulled the psychic off the path, taking them both to the deep hollow at the base of a tree. It wouldn't do much but it would afford them at least a few seconds of preparation if the people after him passed by this area- possibly hide them altogether, if whoever this was didn't look to closely. A quick text in Henry's direction and then he turned to face Spencer again, resuming pressure on the wound. The material was ruined in less than a second, blood welling up in protest to blossom poisonously over his hands, and Spencer spasmed at the pressure, brow furrowing through a round of coughs. "Shit..." he breathed, a ragged and uncertain sort of croak, but he didn't rouse any more than that.

"Spencer," Lassiter whispered, shaking him by the shoulder. "Spencer! Come on, _wake up!"_

The psychic shook again, body wracked with another set of tremors, but there was otherwise no response. Lassiter's anxiety hitched up another notch, and he shook the psychic again. They had to get him out of here, fast.

His phone buzzed next to him, and Lassiter strained his neck to see the message, too worried to remove the pressure from the wound.

 _Yeah, I'm in position. Suspect returned to the gas station few minutes after I got here, was armed, no Shawn. Accomplice arrived few minutes after and they went back into the forest together. You find Shawn?_

Short, to the point, and Shawn-focused. To be expected, he supposed.

Lassiter grimaced again, returning his attention to Spencer. Two bad guys, now in this place with him- looking for Spencer. Spencer, who had managed to get himself shot twice in less than twelve hours and now was unconscious and bleeding in a hotbed of infection. This had just gone from bad, to worse, to absolute worst.

 _Come on, detective. Break it down into objectives; stay in control here. Two-pronged approach here; take out bad guys, and get Spencer to an ambulance. Objective two first. Objective two first!_

After all, he could go hunting and shoot out these punks' skulls any day of the week. That ambulance, however- either it came in the next very few hours, or Spencer was leaving here in a body bag.

The thought made a chill go down his spine.

Then, just as swiftly as the gut-clenching horror came, anger followed.

"I am head detective of the SBPD," he muttered under his breath, resuming pressure with a renewed vengeance. "I am not going to be distracted by emotion. I am head detective of the SBPD... I am not going to let myself be distracted by emotion- for god's sakes, I'm not Spencer!"

He punctuated the statement with a particularly heavy shove against the psychic's bleeding wound, trying to expel all of that inordinately unhelpful emotion once and for all. The motion, however, did more than turn Spencer into a sponge for his anger and distress.

It woke him up.

At the push the psychic abruptly gasped, eyes flying open wildly and body spasming to escape his hands. Lassiter was so surprised he almost let up the pressure and Spencer's gaze, the epitome of unfocused and confused, danced over the misty forest, drinking in everything and landing on nothing. But something was wrong, Lassiter realized; it wasn't his usual, unbelievably fast scan of a room- this was more random, more unfocused. Lassiter would be surprised if Spencer had registered more than half of what'd he seen.

But he was conscious, and that had just doubled his chances of getting out of here alive.

"Spencer?" he tried in an attempt to get his attention, whispering the psychic's name. The response was less than favorable.

"Son of a muffin stick on a pineapple sunbeam pop..." Spencer breathed, head lolling on his shoulder and already ashen, muddy features seeming to pale just a little more. "There's a little wabbit in my stomach eating my... liver..."

Lassiter glanced over him worriedly, the usual nonsense even more ridiculous than usual. He was barely coherent on his best of days; he couldn't tell if the change for the worse, though, was because of some reaction to mental stress- or if the blood loss was to thank. "That's not your liver, Spencer, it's your spleen," he muttered, raising his free hand to snap his fingers in front of the psychic's face. "Hey!" He snapped again, loud and obtrusive. " _Spencer!"_

The psychic jerked at the call to attention, alarmed gaze flickering towards him at last. His eyes widened in momentary surprise, clarity at last returning to deathly pale features. "L-Lassieface!" he coughed, voice rough. He was bright-eyed and feverish, and the surprised gaze only held his for a moment before roaming away again. "You showed up after all! Awww, and your favorite jacket, too. You shouldn't have." His fingers fumbled weakly for the silk ( _silk! God damn it Spencer)_ pressed against his wound.

"Damn right I shouldn't have," Lassiter snapped under his breath. No matter the abrasive exterior that came as second nature to him, the fact the Spencer had at last managed to respond coherently to him had left him relieved. But he clung to his irritation still; he did have a reputation to uphold after all, and being relieved that Spencer had managed to answer a simple question wouldn't do the trick. "You know how foolish you were, wondering out doing police work in the middle of the night?!" he barked, resisting the sudden urge to whack him on the back of the head. "It's _dangerous,_ Spencer! What, you think I carry a gun just because I like it?!"

The psychic raised an eyebrow, darting gaze landing on him at last. His eyes were hazy but managed to focus on him for a second, incredulity passing across pale features instead of pain. "Yes," he deadpanned. "What... that's not the only reason?"

It seemed even a bullet wound couldn't dampen Spencer's grating, childish sense of humor.

Sighing, Lassiter shifted his pressure on the wound and began to fill the psychic in on the situation.

"I've got a hold off on backup as there's no safe vantage point to approach from, but in your condition we just may have to risk it. Two bad guys in here, looking for you, possibly more- can you give me a better number?"

Spencer's head rolled on the dirt, eyes glazing over in lack of focus and pain. Mud caked through his precious hair but even that was preferable to the blood stains on his face. "Def, definitely- one. One. I think... I saw..." He paused, squinting. "I was going to call you..."

Lassiter pursed his lips. "You did. Barely said anything, though. Almost the moment I picked up the gunshots started."

Spencer raised an eyebrow. "Gunshots?"

 _He... he doesn't remember?_ "Spencer," Lassiter said, frowning again, and loosened up on the pressure a fraction. "Spencer, you were shot twice. Remember?"

The confusion remained for a moment longer, blatant and undeniable against his white as paper face, and when it clarity shifted into place at last, it did nothing to put his worries at ease. "Of course, man, I'm just playing," he croaked out, adding a pathetic sort of grin on at the end as reassurance. It didn't come close to fooling him. God, that might've been just the worst lie he'd ever seen, and he'd seen some really bad ones.

"...Right," he muttered, letting it slide anyway. Nothing would come from his pressing the point. "It sounded like they saw you and you took off," he prodded, trying to get him to remember. "That what happened?"

Spencer nodded distractedly, shutting his eyes for a brief moment. "I was gonna try and call you... bring in the... calvary..."

Spencer's brief moment of rest was turning into something longer, and Lassiter snapped his fingers in front of his face again, trying to sound as impatient and annoyed as he could. "Spencer!"

The psychic jerked again, blinking rapidly. "Calvary!" he gasped breathlessly, shaking his head. "Calvary, black and white horses, save the day..."

Lassiter grimaced. "Well, backup's not coming. Not yet, at least. Got multiple teams on standby ready to come in silent- but we need some way to draw them out of the forest and quit looking for you. We're not about to risk taking you out of here with them still in here, Spencer. ...Though if you've got any brilliant plans bouncing around up there..." he began reluctantly, barely able to hold the psychic's gaze, "then- now would be the time, Spencer."

It was very quiet for a moment, the silence broken only by Spencer's ragged breathing. The weight of the psychic's shocked gaze on him was undeniable, and Lassiter swallowed, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

Then, Spencer's mouth twitched in barely restrained amusement.

"You asking me for help, Lassie?"

The grin was full force now, and Lassiter again resisted the urge to whack him on the back of the head.

"Could you take something seriously for _once_ in your life?! Just _once!_ That's all I'm asking!"

Spencer grinned a little, head lolling to the side. "You sound like my dad..."

Lassiter sighed, giving up. Spencer had either lost too much blood or was in too much pain to be of any help. He was on his own.

He resumed pressure over the wound, thinking hard and trying not to focus on the substance all over his hands. His hands were wet and dripping with hot blood and the feel of it was beginning to get too much for him to ignore; the reality that if the ambulance didn't get here soon, it would get here too late, was getting to be undeniable.

"We..." Spencer mumbled blearily. "We- you said we, before... you're not alone?"

"Of course I'm not alone, Spencer; _real_ police don't go off tracking gunmen without a partner! But of course, you wouldn't know that, would you.. investigating crime scenes alone in the middle of the night; what is _wrong_ with you, Spencer?!" Never mind that his so called partner here was actually a many years retired former detective who had stolen Lassiter's backup weapon and was currently keeping watch out by the gas station and not even in the forest.

But the psychic paid no attention to the jab. Instead he pointed vaguely, hand wavering unsteadily in the air but eyes bright. "Partner... get partner... to fire off some... some rounds..."

"What?!" he hissed, barely managing to keep his voice down. "Spencer, are you insane?!"

"Draw attention... get bad guys out of here... call in back... backu-"

A round of harsh coughs cut the psychic off that left him shaking in pain, and Lassiter's eyes widened in alarm. He opened his mouth to say something but had no idea what and found himself just sitting there, speechless, helpless to do anything- just staring in horror as Spencer's condition deteriorated.

When he finally managed to stop the internal revolt of hoarse coughs, Spencer's head dropped in exhaustion and he shut his eyes for a moment, breathing hard. "What... even is... not like m'liver's near... the old lungs..."

It took more effort than Lassiter wanted to admit to for him to reply in the manner he knew the psychic was expecting. Maintain normalcy, until- he couldn't. "Your _spleen,_ Spencer," he corrected again, but frowned. The psychic's speech had sounded odd; mumbled and muffled, like there was something in his mouth-

The psychic turned his head to the side, squeezed his eyes shut in pain, and spat out a splatter of blood.

Lassiter paled.

 _Internal bleed. He's got an internal bleed in there somewhere._

His time limit until that ambulance became an unnecessary slap to the face just got that much shorter.

"Spencer..."

The psychic shook his head again, not seeming to realize what had just happened or either he just didn't care. "Get your backup," he insisted again, fingers twitching, "to start firing. Outside the forest... it'll draw bad guy one and two's attention... get em out of here..."

It took Lassiter a few seconds to understand what Spencer was proposing- and when he did it was a very strong sense of discontent and outright annoyance.

That was actually a good plan.

Get Henry to unload a few rounds into the street out by the gas station... the two suspects out here would hear it and hightail it back, each thinking the other had found Spencer. When they got back to the gas station, have a silent team of backup waiting to take them out.

It was a good plan. A _brilliant_ one, actually.

And god did it wrankle at his pride that _Spencer_ was the one to come up with it- Spencer, who'd managed to be less coherent than a junkie high on crack and currently barely conscious.

God damn it, he really hated Spencer.

Spencer's bloodied mouth twitched into an arrogant smirk. "Well, Lassieface?" he prodded weakly, and Lassiter sent him a black glare.

"Hang on," he muttered, relinquishing pressure on the wound for a moment to lean back and grab his phone. Spencer let out a shuddering gasp and it took Lassiter a few seconds to get back next to him and reposition a bloody palm over the wound.

He never got the chance to start the text message.

The keening cry of agony that erupted in response to renewed pressure made sure of that.

Spencer screamed in the space of a single spasm, short burst of a shout ripping out to echo in a hearstoppingly loud cry, and Lassiter dived forward in alarm to cover his mouth- but it was too late. The scream echoed even now around the dark forest- ringing in his ears in a perpetual alarm bell that signaled their location to anybody in the nearby vicinity.

Spencer's eyes had widened in surprise the moment Lassiter had covered his mouth, pain brushed aside by shock, and, glaring at him, Lassiter sat back, holding a finger to his lips. "Those guys could be nearby! You've got to stay quiet... not that it matters now, they'll probably find us after that last outburst..."

"Well... excuse _me..._ for not..." the psychic snapped back breathlessly once he could speak, trailing off to mouth the rest of the jab too weakly to be heard. Spencer was pale and struggling to breathe now, eyes still roving in alarm, and Lassiter bit his lip. He didn't know how much longer he would last out here like this.

Sighing, he leaned forward again, this time making sure to catch Spencer's eye and have his attention before he returned pressure to the wound. The psychic's mouth opened in a soundless gasp, entire body going rigid under the pressure save for his hands: trembling so hard, shaking so badly, it looked like he was in the throes of another one of his 'visions'.

He did keep silent, but it was a near thing, and Lassiter found himself looking away, shushing up the pity growing in his mind and telling the regret growing in him to go to hell. "Try to relax," he muttered. "Tensing makes it worse."

"Oh, d- does it now, L-aaassie," Spencer gasped, speech stilted and awkward through the pain, his eyes flashing in irritation. "Why don't y-you just... _relax..._ when your stomach's swiss... cheese..."

Lassiter scowled. "Hardly swiss. One bullet hole doesn't make you bullet riddled, although you keep up with your nonsense and you may find yourself that way."

Spencer's eye twitched but he otherwise held silent, seeming too busy mastering pain to talk, and, grimacing, Lassiter glanced back around the forest, trying to come to a decision.

"Think you can walk?" he asked the winded psychic at last, grabbing for his phone.

Spencer grimaced at the very idea, and his already ashen features lost what little blood they had left. "Ah... little bit..." he ground out, then shook again as another set of spasms took him. "Not far... but some... Lassie?"

 _He's not far off from shock... not good._ Lassiter nodded grimly, and at the gesture Spencer's eyes glinted in anticipation. He grabbed the psychic's good arm and brought his hand over to keep pressure on the wound, nodding at him. "Whatever you do, don't let up on this," he warned. "Texting for backup."

"You didn't bring- oh sweet mother of baby pineapple!" he gasped, jerking back at the renewed pressure over the wound. Lassiter quirked an eyebrow at the expression but otherwise didn't comment, already on his phone. He sent off the first set of instructions to Henry, then set about contacting o'Hara.

 _Found Spencer. 2 GSWs, EMTs needed STAT. Send in backup, ambulance, call Henry for location, COME IN SILENT. no sirens. Hurry._

Then, without waiting for a response, he knocked Spencer's trembling hand away and again pushed against his side, already maneuvering himself to grip the psychic's arm. "All right, we're going to stand now," he warned, glancing darkly at Spencer. "Little sound as you can."

Spencer had blanched at the word stand, and now was gut-droppingly silent. Slowly, he nodded, apprehension gleaming in the form of pale sweat. With a nod back, Lassiter slowly pulled the man to his feet, supporting him all the while.

Spencer was barely to make it to his feet, and that was with almost all of his weight hanging off of Lassiter like an anchor. He didn't speak, and by the shallow, reedy gasps in his ear, couldn't even if he wanted to. Grimacing, Lassiter took what little more of his weight that he could and bit back the uncertain apology that rose. Sorry? For what? This entire disaster was Spencer's fault in the first place. If standing hurt him, well, Spencer was like a child. Children didn't learn not to touch the stove until they got burned. Maybe getting shot would finally teach him to _follow orders_ and not involve himself to the point of standing in front of a psychopath with a weapon.

"Wait for it," he muttered under his breath when Spencer tugged a little at his arm, not seeming to understand why they weren't moving. "Wait for it..."

At last, first one, then a second gunshot split the air. Lassiter remained absolutely still, still holding Spencer upright. "That was Henry," he informed the psychic in a gruff whisper, already listening for the sound of their pursuers. "O'Hara's got orders to send backup in but silent and hidden; they'll both come out towards the gas station into the arms of the SBPD. When that happens, EMTs will have the all clear to come in after us. Until then, we're still on our own- so we're going to get moving the second those thugs pass us."

" _Dude,"_ Spencer gasped out, turning his head just enough to look at him with a slight grin. "This is unbelievably... badass..."

Lassiter stared at him incredulously. "You've been _shot,_ and your reaction is that this is _badass?!_ "

Spencer gestured vaguely, hand weakly fluttering in midair. "Not the getting shot part... the clandestine escape part... coulda done without the-"

" _Shh!"_ Lassiter hushed, slapping a hand over his mouth again at the sound of branches breaking and leaves crumpling underfoot. He sank back as far as he could against the tree and brought Spencer behind him, one hand on the psychic's wrist, the other still over the psychic's mouth to keep him silent.

The motion made Spencer's gasps escalate into a fullblown whine of pain, the whimper growing in his throat and almost impossible to silence. Lassiter stiffened in alarm, bringing them both as close as he could get to the tree even though it meant forcing Spencer to double over, clasping his hand firmer over the man's mouth in preparation for the cry it would elicit. He managed to muffle it, but the thug wasn't anywhere near out of ear shot, and Lassiter grimaced again.

 _Come on, Spencer, make it..._

The psychic shook in his contorted position, biting into Lassiter's hand now to stop himself from screaming. Lassiter gritted his teeth and bore it, no stranger to pain on this level, and forced himself to wait.

When Spencer's head buried itself in his arm, however- that was another matter entirely.

Lassiter shifted to stare at him in alarm, at first thinking the man had passed out. But, no; he was still shaking, and still biting his hand; he had definitely not lost consciousness. He was now just curled against him, sagging onto his shoulder and head hidden in the crook of his neck, barely with the strength to remain upright.

The change was minute. So minute it would have been not worth even noticing, to some.

To Lassiter, it was significant in a way that he could not ignore.

Spencer was now latched onto him just as Juliet had been, after midnight literal nightmares at nauseating heights and brushes with death too close to admit. He had never before seen his partner break down like that, and never again after it; just that momentary lapse of control that had ended in her shaking against him so hard he was the only thing there was to hold her upright.

And that was how Spencer was now.

Lassiter wasn't the kind of guy one thought when they needed a shoulder to lean on. Hell, he wasn't the one anyone turned to in search of anything resembling comfort, period- and Spencer sure as hell did not seem the type to need emotional support.

But now was not normal.

Spencer had just been through hell, and with a severe lack of anyone else present, that left just him.

Grimacing, Lassiter made a mental note to never mention this to anyone, _ever,_ and resumed allowing his hand to be mangled and the psychic to weigh on his shoulder, and waited for the noise to pass.

When it finally did, he wasted no time in dragging Spencer out back into the open again, allowing him to finally release the stress on the wound. Even when he removed his bleeding, aching hand, Spencer did not make a sound. At first there was only silence; when the whimper that had been contained was released at last, it was more of a weak, pathetic little sound in his throat than anything else. Somehow, it only spurred his worry on.

"Come... come on," he managed at last, shaking his head to clear it. "We've got to get moving."

Breathlessly, Spencer turned his head enough to look at him, eyes narrowed. "...We're speaking of this... to no one."

"Spencer, trust me, I'd sooner get shot myself then tell anyone what just happened."

"W-what are you t-alking about? Nothing... nothing just... happened," the psychic shot back weakly.

"Agreed."

"Yep-a-doodle. Nothing."

Lassiter groaned. Spencer did always have to have the last word. "Come on," he muttered again, shifting his grip on his arm and beginning to move forward. Spencer staggered at the sudden exertion and forced Lassiter to stop; even carrying almost all of the man's weight, the psychic would still have to walk on his own. He couldn't carry him, as embarrassing and terrible as that experience would be- they were too far away from the gas station. "Spencer, come on," he pressed again, just barely keeping the impatience out of his voice. "Unless you want to die out here, we have to hurry!"

"Y-you know, Carly, getting impatient at a man who's b-been _shot?_ Real dick move."

Lassiter blinked, momentarily takenaback. He thought he'd been hiding it. Hell, if Spencer could pick up on it even in his condition, maybe he really did need to work on his bedside manner.

Then he scoffed at himself, shaking his head. Bedside manner? He was a _cop;_ save that flowery shit for a doctor. Besides, if Spencer was anything, he was observant like a tack was sharp. That was all this was.

"You ready?" he asked gruffly, Spencer's ragged breathing still in his ear.

"Well, that's a loaded question, Lassie, with many-"

" _Spencer!"_

"Okay, okay, fine!" The psychic paused, evaluating his own condition or perhaps just fighting for enough breath to answer. When he did speak, the apprehension and nervousness- two words he didn't _ever_ think he'd use to describe Spencer- was undeniable. "...about as ready as I can be. ...You know. With the whole being shot and all."

Rolling his eyes, Lassiter pulled the psychic with him and set onto the path. When he started moving and didn't give Spencer any way to argue against him, the man reluctantly just tried to go with him. He could barely walk, and for once Lassiter didn't think he was exaggerating. He was making the best effort he could give- it just so happened the effort was pathetic. They wouldn't get far at all, but any distance could be a literal lifesaver.

"Huh," Spencer gasped, struggling just to put one foot in front of the other. "Don't remember it being... this hard... when I was running... earlier..."

Lassiter grimaced. "Whatever adrenaline you were running on earlier is gone. ...And, you've lost too much blood." It was true. The hand in his was cold and sweaty, despite the infection that had almost certainly found its way into his open wound of a shoulder. Blood loss was a serious concern and he knew they didn't have very long until Spencer passed out. Sheer bluster could only carry him so far.

In going to find Spencer, Lassiter had gone at least nine miles in two hours, and that was only because he'd had to stay slow enough to check for signs the psychic. At the rate they were going now, they'd be lucky to cover a mile an hour. Lassiter ran through the math in his head quickly, measuring the size of the forest and the distance they still had left to go.

 _Three miles to go... and given how remote this area is, we'll have about half an hour until backup gets here. Three miles in half an hour... that's pretty rough even if I were going alone._

With Spencer bleeding all over his shoulder, of course, that just wasn't going to happen.

The direness of the situation was closing in on him, and Lassiter realized there was just no way this was going to happen. Hell, it was a miracle Spencer had managed to run this far into the forest at all- a miracle that had definitely prolonged his life, but there was no guarantee it had saved it. This final stretch was just too long, and in Spencer's condition, they weren't going to make it in time.

They weren't going to make it in time.

Suddenly, Lassiter felt cold, and the blood that wasn't his covering him had nothing to do with it.

"Spencer... I..."

"I- I know," the psychic gasped, staggering again. "You... you don't think I can make it... right...?"

Lassiter stared at him. He sounded- angry, somehow, and for once, this wasn't their typical needling argument. "...Spencer-"

"Get mad at me." Spencer stopped for a moment, clearly short of breath, and the shaking hand in his clenched. "Tell me you don't care. That you didn't think I c-could make it... anyway..." he trailed off into a violent cough; this one expelled blood as well and ended in an agonized whimper, but the psychic wasn't done yet. "Tell me... is what you expected..."

Lassiter swallowed back shock, wide-eyed and stunned. "What- what the hell are you going on about, Spen-"

"Just do it!"

With that exclamation the psychic's head jerked around to meet his stare eye to eye, wild desperation contorting ashen features into bloody panic. The weight of his gaze left him speechless, and Lassiter just stared back at him, mind utterly blank with shock. He had absolutely no idea what the psychic was getting at- no clue at all as to what he was trying to do. "Spencer-"

" _Lassie, please!"_

Spencer's scream of his name echoed in the deserted forest as an earsplitting cry, leaving Lassiter even more lost than before and his heart pounding. Every fiber of his being screamed that Spencer had just lost his mind and he needed to just shut him up and keep going- but that look in his eye stopped him.

It screamed sincerity. It screamed desperation.

Lassiter swallowed.

So help him, Spencer may be an immature man-child that lacked any semblance of adulthood or the ability to take anything seriously- but he was smart. Possibly one of the smartest people Lassiter knew.

Spencer was serious about this. This was not just because he was in pain or in severe need of more than one transfusion. This was something he believed he needed. This was what Specner believed was his best shot out of here.

And when Spencer came up with a plan, they damn near always worked.

"Tell me I'm going to die out here, Lassie!"

The desperate need in his eyes was all he had to see.

"You're going to die, Spencer." He paused, searching Spencer's eyes for any sign that this wasn't what he wanted- all he found was absolute, sincere need. "You're not going to make it. You're going to die here, because you're not strong enough to get yourself back alive, Spencer."

Spencer stared at him still, chest heaving, hand in his shaking. "Get mad at me," he growled, less desperate than before but no less sincere. "Do it, Lassie."

With no choice left but to trust him, Lassiter did.

It took him about five seconds to find the anger at the psychic that he had dropped at the sight of him unconscious and almost dead. And when it came back to him, it came back with a vengeance.

"Spencer, I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, you keep your ass out of police business. This isn't a playground for you and Guster to have fun in; this is where people can get shot and _killed_. Not that I'm surprised; you probably goaded him into shooting you! And then what do you do?! You walk right in front of him to get shot _again!_ Brilliantly done, Spencer, _brilliantly_ done!" Lassiter cut himself off before he wound himself up, the habitual irritation at Spencer too easy to fall back into even now and instead turned to watch the psychic closely. Surely, this could not be helping him.

At the silence, however, Spencer just nodded, then weakly gestured for him to go on.

Steeling himself, Lassiter did.

"But that's not enough! First you get yourself shot, then you can't even get yourself out of it. Typical. You cause your own mess, then have to wait to the real men to come and clean up. Not even your dad was surprised you finally managed to fuck up; been sheer luck that you haven't until now. You're just lucky you didn't manage to get Guster killed in the process."

Spencer took an uneasy step forward, then another after that. He was panting now but there was some sort of strength in him that hadn't been there before, and his eyes flickered to glare at Lassiter for a half second before he managed another step- and there was no doubt about it, he was moving faster than before. "You don't think I can make it out of here," he wheezed, fingernails digging into Lassiter's already bleeding hand for support, "do you, Lassie?"

And at last, Lassiter understood.

Spencer was a creature of expectations. Whatever expectations were set for him, he'd do his damn best not to meet them. Henry expect him to become a cop? He'd become just about the closest thing to it- but no way, no how, would that kid ever go for a badge. Expect him to stay in the car while real detectives went and did real police work? Not a chance. Expect him to do just about anything, and he'd struggle to do just the opposite.

And, Spencer was self-aware. He knew that about himself.

He knew that his best chance out of here was to believe that his father, Gus, the police- none of them believed he was strong enough to survive two gunshot wounds and the hike ahead of them still. Because he was stubborn, stubborn like a child; he'd do it to prove them wrong, because that was what Spencer did, he proved people wrong and took a perverse sort of pleasure from it. To know that the odds and expectations of everyone were against him, and that he had succeeded over them- that was the kind of feeling Spencer lived for.

Lassiter smiled grimly.

He knew cops like Spencer. Hell, he had a little streak like that himself. That it wasn't people believing in him that gave him the strength to persevere, but lack of confidence that gave him the endurance to prove others wrong.

It made sense, in a way.

And, now that he understood, Lassiter had no problem continuing to push him.

"No, Spencer." He paused for a moment to give the words impact. "I don't think you're going to get out of here alive. Hell, at the rate you're going?" Lassiter swallowed, reminding himself the purpose for this was to get the psychic the strength to keep moving. "You'll bleed out and die before we've even gone a mile. There's three to go, by the way."

Spencer released a shaking breath, remaining still for a moment, his ashen features unreadable. Whether he was gathering strength, mastering pain, or something else entirely, Lassiter didn't know, and when the psychic spoke again, he was still left in the dark. "Hey, Lassie?"

"...Spencer?"

The psychic's mouth twitched into a stubborn, minuscule grin, and expression previously contorted in pain shifted into one that glowed with determination. "Fuck off."

Then he started walking again, and this time, it was at a pace that would get them somewhere.

Lassiter grinned **.**


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for the hits! One more chapter after this, which, rather than being posted tomorrow, will just come up whenever I manage to grab wifi with my laptop again. It's surprisingly difficult, nowadays. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Lassiter remained acutely aware of the passing time as they walked, checking at his watch so obsessively he could almost count the seconds pass. At the fifteen minutes a mile rate Spencer had managed, they would make it at least halfway, if not farther, before the paramedics came in after them. It was better than he could've hoped for, that was for sure.

The gunshots were due to start any minute now, he thought anxiously, glancing up ahead at the path. Actually, once that happened, he was a little worried about how Spencer would react. The knowledge that help was coming might be all the reassurance it would take to get him to stop trying.

When his phone vibrated in his pocket again, Lassiter briefly released the pressure on Spencer's wound to check the message. It was o'Hara, telling him that she was five minutes out. There was curiously no query about the psychic in that message, and, grimacing, Lassiter shoved his phone back in his pocket to return pressure to the stomach wound. She'd probably wanted to add something on, but known he wouldn't reply. She would be here in five minutes to see him for herself, and he didn't have time to assuage her worries right now.

O'Hara ended up being right on the money. It was four and a half minutes before the first gunshot cracked the air, and four minutes and forty seconds when the final one echoed over the forest like a firecracker. Their chief did have a soft spot for the maniac, after all... the response she would've sent out for this was paramount to one she would've sent for an actual officer. The two idiots wouldn't have stood a chance.

When the gunfire was very definitely over, the two remained still in the center of the path for a moment, just listening and waiting. At last, when it was undeniable that the battle was over, Lassiter tried to tug the psychic on along to walk with him again. Spencer did resist at first, moaning a little through gritted teeth, his head hanging and his fingers shaking- swallowing back the dammed sympathy that rose again, Lassiter cleared his throat and spoke. "Your dad did always say you never could finish what you started."

The irritated, dark glare that shot in his direction told him that, if he were well, this was the moment when Spencer would hit him. But, if Spencer was well, they wouldn't be in this situation in the first place.

The jab, however, had done the trick. With one unsteady, unsure breath, Spencer forced himself to start walking again. One foot in front of the other in a agonizingly slow pace- but he was walking.

 _Just a few more minutes is all you need to manage, Spencer..._

Spencer kept on struggling forward for at least a minute, but it was clear he was almost out of strength. At one point, head lolling forward and entire body weighing down as dead weight against Lassiter's shoulder, the psychic muttered out something, an uncertain, ragged whisper that remained inaudible.

Lassiter frowned, the sound leaving him more uneasy than before. "...Say again."

The psychic made what was possible supposed to be a shrug; it was far closer to a bare twitch in one shoulder. "'M dad... always told me... _gunshot wounds hurt, Shawn. That's what they're su-supposed t-to do."_ His voice had slipped into a low timbre, a clear- and actually rather accurate- impersonation of his father. _"So, if you get shot someday, d-don't worry if it hu- hurts."_ He paused again for a moment, clearly struggling to maintain the strength to speak. When he spoke again, his voice had slipped back into its own, the mocking of his father forgotten. "When it doesn't hurt... that's when you worry."

Something about the way he said those words made Lassiter's heart skip a beat.

"Spe- Spencer?" he asked nervously, mouth dry.

"S-so," the psychic coughed, then giggled a little, the sound nervous and high-pitched. "When it stops hurting. ...That means you're dying."

God damn it, he was not saying this. "Spencer-"

"Lassie... think I'm dying."

"Spencer!"

The psychic stopped walking and abruptly dropped against him, held up only by the arm Lassiter still had pulled around his shoulder. If it weren't for that, he would've hit the ground face first. Lassiter yanked on his arm again, then held the psychic at arm's length and shook him, alarm escalating into what almost qualified as panic. _"Spencer!"_

A cheeky, unfocused grin twitched into existence, looking terribly out of place against deathly pale skin and bloody lips. "Sh... shhhhanks for the j-jacket, Laaaaassie," he slurred, head slumped against his chest. "Don, don't think I'll... be needing it much... longer... Las..."

Spencer dropped like a stone.

* * *

Gus had already been warned by Juliet that he might not like what was waiting for him out there. She'd warned him before he'd even gotten in the car that this was one case he might want to stay behind for.

On some level, he could agree with her.

After all, he was historically not that great when it came to blood, and if Lassiter's text was to be believed, Shawn had not been shot once, but _twice._ There was promised to be a lot of blood and in a lot of places.

Of course, Juliet wasn't only referring to the blood.

Gus was sure the sight of his best friend shot was something that was going to stay with him for the rest of his life. Juliet knew that, too, and she was trying to spare him that.

Well, too bad.

Shawn was _his_ best friend, and there wasn't a force strong enough to keep him going right along with the police, and then running after the team of paramedics into the forest, Shawn's dad on one side and Juliet on the other.

(Well, zombies. The presence of zombies could've been strong enough to stop him. Shawn knew that getting tangled up with the supernaturally undead meant he would be going it alone.)

Even though his need to be here was matched only by his fear for the sight that would be waiting for him, when they finally drew near enough to hear just what Lassiter was shouting, Gus's stomach did a violent flip flop, and he suddenly wished he hadn't come along after all.

" _God damn you, Spencer, don't you DARE make me kiss you, son of a bitch!"_

CPR.

Shawn wasn't breathing.

 _Shawn's not breathing._

If it weren't for Henry, Gus would've been the fastest moving person of the whole group. As it was, the former cop got there first, sprinting past the paramedics in abject alarm only to freeze to a paralyzed stop once his son had come into view. The sight of unflappable, tough as nails, invincible _Henry Spencer_ rooted to the spot like that... it was enough to make Gus's stomach flip flop again.

He was only vaguely aware of Juliet running beside him, and even less so of the paramedics now behind them. And when Shawn came into view, he was aware of absolutely nothing else aside the sight of Lassiter forcing his best friend to breathe.

Both of them were covered in blood. Too much of it. _Too much_ blood, his brain stumbled over the amount, struggling to reconcile how that much blood could be inside one person. Outside. Not inside; it wasn't in Shawn. _He bled all of that. Oh my god, Shawn._

Lassiter fell rather than just sat back from Shawn when the paramedics moved in like a duo of vultures, the detective gasping like a fish on land. "Stopped- breathing- minute and a half- ago," he forced out, raising a bloody sleeve to wipe his mouth. His eyes widened when he saw the blood and he jerkily lowered his arm instead. "Left shoulder, lower right abdomen- GSWs- only one exit wound- get your hands off me, I'm fine!" he barked, slapping at the paramedic who tried to attend to him. "The blood's not mine!"

Gus found himself with tunnel vision; all he could see was Shawn, Shawn's blood, Shawn's chest not rising, Shawn's blood, two bullet holes, good lord his chest wasn't rising... his chest wasn't rising... and why was he so pale, so pale like a corpse...

 _Shawn..._

Gus blinked, jerking out of stricken horror when the paramedics were suddenly in action again, moving his friend from the mud to a stretcher. The motion made his senses click back into functioning with a dizzying jerk and he tuned in just in time to hear one of the medics say, "Oxygen's back at the ambulance, we're gonna take him back now- can one of you keep with the rescue breaths-"

Juliet stepped forward, and she looked just as horrified as he felt, but at least she was doing something with it. "I'll go." Lassiter, still winded, was clearly not an option.

The first paramedic nodded once and waved her forward, already turning to lead the way out of the forest again. "Come on, let's go!"

And just like that, Shawn was gone- and all that was left behind was his blood.

Juliet had been right, Gus thought abruptly, and weakly swallowed back the rising bile.

He wished he hadn't been here to see this.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for the hits/review! Final chapter :)

* * *

Spencer had been very lucky.

First bullet merely a flesh wound, second one skating by multiple organs to lodge somewhere in muscle fibers; quite possibly the only way he could've gotten shot twice, been left untreated for hours on end, and then still lived to tell the tale. The three blood transfusions were the only real treatment to speak of, aside from the digging out of the one remaining bullet, and the psychic had been downgraded from emergency to just barely critical before he'd even reached the hospital. The period without oxygen had been very brief, brief enough that brain damage wasn't even a concern, and the infection that had taken hold during the hours in the forest was wiped away after a measly one round of antibiotics. There were benefits, it turned out, to having a father that hadn't let his son anywhere near drugs unless he was dying, and one of those benefits was an immune system that didn't take prisoners.

So, all in all, Spencer had been very, very lucky.

 _Lucky I'm not punching him in the face, anyway._

Lassiter frowned deeply, watching the stream of visitors flow in and out of the psychic's room in distaste. He himself was only here as o'Hara's ride, hospital visits not being his thing, and he was getting more impatient by the second. What were they spending so much time doing- what was there to even say? _Get well soon, next time you think about getting involved in a case like this think twice, next time you get shot because of your own recklessness prepare to have my foot in your ass-_

...Well, o'Hara probably wasn't going to go that far.

Sighing, Lassiter rubbed his face again, stretching newly clean fingers. Henry had taken one look at his blood-soaked shirt, still sans jacket that was abandoned somewhere in a Hefty-size evidence bag, and sent him from the waiting room to find something else to wear. Unfortunately, hospitals were slim pickings for spare sets of clothes, and all he'd been able to track down was a set of scrubs. His hands had taken much longer; Spencer's blood had spread everywhere, digging under fingernails and up to his wrists, and every minute he'd spent scrubbing under the sink, his desire to punch the psychic had only grown.

 _Don't you dare make me kiss you, you son of a bitch!_

Lassiter shook his head quickly, trying to abolish that entire memory. The details of that entire disaster would be recorded as his statement somewhere, stuffed into some case file, and promptly forgotten about, never to be read again. That was that. No rehashing necessary, and certainly no remembering that he'd been forced to breathe for that damnable psychic.

Groaning, he briefly checked his watch and started tapping his foot, watching his partner's blonde head bob around in the psychic's room. Hospitals made him uncomfortable in more ways than one and he was beyond ready to leave- when at last she turned towards the door, he couldn't have been happier.

Eagerness to leave turned into surprise when his partner was followed, first by Guster, and then by the elder Spencer. Lassiter blinked, confused, when all the attention turned to him, then took a step back. "What?"

O'Hara shrugged. "He wants to talk to you, Carlton." She nodded back towards the room and stepped aside; when he didn't move, stunned, she frowned at him and reached out to pull on his arm. "Go on, partner! We'll wait."

Lassiter stared at them all, shocked. Spencer wanted to talk to _him?_ Guster looked just as confused as he did whereas Henry was just subtlety glaring at him, the impatience that had been Lassiter's best friend only thirty seconds ago now transferred to him. He looked vaguely irritated that he'd been banished from his son's room for the time being, whatever conversation Spencer wanted to have in private keeping him outside, and Lassiter decided it was probably in his best interests to simply hurry and comply. He wasn't one to be intimidated, but after the day Henry had had, Lassiter didn't want to be the one to cross him. Mind still racing, he moved forward to head into the room, trying to ignore the way everybody's confused stares tracked after him. He quickly shut the door behind him, then turned to face Spencer with nothing more than a breath for preparation.

The psychic was unconscious. A bit worrisome, considering he'd clearly been awake just a minute previously, and Lassiter frowned, looking him over. Complexion barely improved since the forest, cheeks flushed with fever, the visible bandages on his shoulder already stained red- a sight for sore eyes, and he cleared his throat, grimacing. Spencer had been the one who'd called him in here. He'd evidently had something to say, and just because he'd managed to doze off in the seconds after the others had exited the room and he'd entered it didn't mean it had to wait. Henry wouldn't have let him in if he'd thought his son wasn't up to it, and besides, the sooner they could get this conversation over, the better.

He cleared his throat again, louder than before. "Spencer."

The psychic jerked. Weary eyes flickered open and shifted around the room without pause, analyzing surroundings in the blink of an eye before he'd even looked at him. The scan took him longer than it normally did, Lassiter noted, but kept his silence. There was any number of reasons for that, and none worth giving voice to.

When Spencer's eyes finally found his, they remained bleary and just the slightest bit unfocused."Lassie!" he exclaimed, voice bright with a bit of oddly false cheer. "Well, hello, buddy!"

Lassiter scowled. Only Spencer could sound so cheerful when on the mend from not just one, but _two_ gunshot wounds. "In case you hadn't noticed, Spencer, I'm not your _buddy."_

"What?" The psychic's face fell. "Come on! First you kiss me without even buying me a drink, and now you're not even my buddy? Lassie, I had no idea you were so cruel."

His stomach dropped. As if on cue, for god's sakes, the moment Spencer twisted CPR into nonsense the way only he could his gut just fell straight to his feet. "You- you remember that?!" he gasped, blanching.

Spencer kept up with the whipped puppy act for a moment longer, and god what a pathetic act it was, before his mouth slipped into a smirk. He shook his head slightly, glancing out the door. "They told me what happened, Lassie. Oh. And, by they, I mean the spirits, of course." He tried to bring his finger to his head but it wavered in midair, and then he was distracted entirely by the task, waggling his fingers and giggling the entire time.

"Okay," Lassiter groaned, resisting the urge to check his watch again, "think you've had enough painkillers."

Spencer took no notice to him, still entirely self-absorbed in the shapes he was trying to contort his hand into. Lassiter just stared at him for a moment, not even particularly surprised by the juvenile antics that amused him- simple pleasures for simple minds, as they said. Not surprised, no, but definitely at least a little irritated, and when Spencer continued the nonsense his patience snapped cleanly in two. _"Spencer!"_

The psychic jumped, blinking rapidly, then abruptly grinned again, falling back to earth. "Oh. Oh, yeah! Lassie! Right, Lassie. Right."

"Spencer..."

"Relax, relax," Spencer laughed, waving him off like one would a bothersome fly. "I know, I know that I called you in here, man. Jush, just, ah... can't really remember why. Give me a second."

Lassiter groaned. "Yeah, I'm out of here. We can have this little talk later, when you're sober." _And by later I mean never..._ He turned for the door, grabbing the handle-

"Wait, Lassieface! I remember!"

"Goodbye, Spenc-"

"Thanks for the jacket."

Lassiter jerked around again.

The psychic shifted slightly, looking away abruptly after what he'd blurted out had clearly gotten his attention. His fingers tapped senselessly and rapidly; Spencer wasn't one to sit still when something was on his mind and his fingers were just about the only thing of his that he could move right now. He paused for a moment, swallowing. "Ah... the jacket, yeah. ...And what you said. You know. About me dying, and stuff."

Lassiter just stared at him, the awkward proclamation leaving him at a loss for words. The sudden transition from superbly ridiculous to terribly serious made his already overstressed and unrested brain stutter, struggling to process the callback to something he would've preferred to never think of again. Spencer dying in his arms had been entirely too melodramatic to believe and entirely too horrible to relive- and he couldn't imagine the psychic felt any different than he did.

Actually, he knew Spencer felt _exactly_ the same way about the situation, seeing as he had been the first to say they were never going to mention it again. "I don't see how this qualifies of never speaking of it," he managed at length, voice gruff and uncaring even to his own ears, and finally chanced looking at Spencer again.

The psychic was frowning at him, head rolling a bit, clearly hunting through hazy memories. "Oh, yeah... yip yip, I said that. Well, can we suspend that for a moment? No more talking about it after this bit of talking about it?"

Lassiter glowered at him, already itching for some way to end this discussion before it got off the ground. "Spencer, you better have a point to make."

"Of course, Lassie, when do I _not?"_

"...With pretty much everything you say."

Groaning, the psychic rubbed his eyes with his good hand and shook his head as if trying to clear it. "I just- I don't remember too much, you know, with the blood loss, and the trauma, and the kissing-"

" _Spencer."_

"-but, I do kinda recall you... maybe... possibly... saving my life." He looked away uncomfortably again, hands twitching in his lap. "...More than once. So, uh, yeah. In all sincerity, thank you for that. ...You know, with the jacket, and the blood everywhere, and- by the way, wasn't that your favorite jacket?"

Lassiter scowled. "Why, yes, actually," he muttered under his breath, not surprised at all, and glared at him. "Why? Does that please you?"

"Of course not, Lassie!" Spencer cried in his usual dramatics, then paused thoughtfully. "Weeeell... maybe."

Lassiter rolled his eyes, but Spencer let the moment pass quickly, seemingly too tired to draw it out with his ridiculous references.

"Look, what you said out there. Or, what I asked you to say is probably more accurate." He waved his hand in a vague approximation of a gesture. "I don't like meeting expectations, if you haven't noticed, Lassie. I know it's illogical... but, having old papa bear for a dad can do that to a guy. He wanted me to be a cop, you know- well, of course you know, everybody knows that." He let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "I just- think I got off track here- it's just that Jules wouldn't have said it, she's not _you,_ she wouldn't have been able to be such... such a..."

"Nasty son of a bitch?" Lassiter supplied, raising an eyebrow, and Spencer chuckled.

"Exactly. She would've gone the traditional route, you know... _Shawn, no, Shawn!"_ His voice jumped at least two octaves, face contorting in a disturbing impersonation of his partner. _"Please don't die, Shawn! Oh, I love you!"_

"...Don't you have a girlfriend who isn't my partner?"

Spencer blinked, grin slipping, and he looked away for a moment, suddenly distracted. "I- Abigail's... yeah. Yeah, I guess so." He ran a hand through his hair, somehow succeeding to make it only more messy than before. "Abigail's... what were we talking about, again?"

Lassiter frowned. So, seemed there was trouble in psychic paradise. He wasn't about to ask, and Spencer definitely wasn't going to volunteer more. "About things that I distinctly remember you telling me to never breathe a word of."

The psychic snapped, or at least he tried to, clumsy and tired fingers not quite managing to pull it off. "Right. Yeah. That. Yeah." He shook his head for a moment, as if trying to clear it. "...My point was that Jules wouldn't have been able to do- what you did- Gus would've been too freaked out... I don't know why I do it anyway, Lassie. Just ever since I was a kid, failing expectations was my thing, you know. Can't even explain it... Mom wants an honor roll kid, I fail a few classes. Dad wants a little junior detective, I won't even take the entrance exam. Works the other way too; I remember, when Dad found out about this whole Psych thing, he told me I'd never make it work. Guess I set out to prove him wrong. ...If he hadn't said that, I don't know if I would've stuck it out in the beginning at all."

Lassiter raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that, or the fact that you were going on thirty and still lacked a stable career."

"I prefer the terms _in the prime of my life_ and _still living the dream,_ Lassieface."

Lassiter rolled his eyes and didn't deign to comment on the merits of pushing thirty and still having your father file your taxes. Instead, he waved for Spencer to stop as the psychic opened his mouth to continue on in elaboration, shaking his head at him. "No, Spencer, don't- you don't have to explain. I... I actually get it."

Spencer's eyes narrowed. "You're not doing the good cop thing, are you? Where you lie your way onto my side so I start feeling comfortable enough to spill my secrets?"

"What? There's not even a bad cop here for that to work, Spencer!" He shook his head again, frustrated. "I'm only trying to say you don't have to explain anything. Knowing your dad, it wasn't that hard to figure out about you... besides, I think... I think that I'm a little like that myself." He looked away towards his fisted hands, swallowing. "I always get more motivated by being told I can't do something then by being told I can." He cleared his throat awkwardly, still struggling to look anywhere but at the psychic. "...Just relieved it worked, I guess."

There was another uncertain pause, Lassiter still looking anywhere but at the psychic and and just listening to the sounds of the hospital, uncomfortable beyond words. His face felt hot and he was already regretting even starting this conversation to begin with. He shifted again, unsure of what to say next or if he should just throw in the towel entirely and make his escape. At last he moved a step backward towards the door, searching for the quickest goodbye that he could say.

It was only then, when he started to move, did Spencer clear his throat and prod the discussion forward one more time. "Lassieface?" he asked, and when Lassiter didn't acknowledge him any further than by stopping his retreat and continuing to stare at the ground Spencer paused again, then simply forged on. "I'm glad I called you."

Lassiter just grimaced.

Spencer, grown to be as much of a constant as his gun and his badge- and suddenly he'd been faced with the possibility of him dying. Spencer, one of the most irritating people he knew, _Spencer,_ unable to take anything seriously even if his life depended on it- now sincerely thanking him.

Any other case, any other victim, and the reply would be a succinct _just doing my job, sir._ And _damn_ Spencer for making him unable to reply with just that.

At last, he managed a weak, "What, are we in a soap opera now?" still glaring at some spot above the psychic's head rather than meeting his gaze. Because he wasn't good with the _emotion_ that reeked in the air right now, and that was just about the only thing his exhausted brain could offer up that steered the conversation back into his territory.

Spencer snorted. "More like a rom-com, Lassieface."

 _Scratch that, actually. Going the emotional route would've been the better choice._ "...I think I just threw up a little."

The psychic rolled his eyes, thankfully letting it drop with that last horrific comment. He paused for a moment, fingers fiddling together. "Like I said, I don't remember too much. Nothing after the gunfire from the old boys in blue against... what's his face."

"Longmore," Lassiter filled in gruffly, and Spencer gave an emphatic nod, hand waving in the air again.

"Yeah, yeah, him. Well, after that, I don't really remember anything. Well, Gus told me how it ended, anyway." He shrugged awkwardly. "Just thought I should add that anything I might have said or done while under the influence of the blood loss fairies, whose effects may be similar to alcohol, but I assure you, they are slightly different-"

"Spencer, I swear to god-"

"-I am not responsible for." He trailed off into a little awkward, false confident grin. "...Out of curiosity- what _did_ I say?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes again, wondering if the psychic could manage to be serious about absolutely anything in his life ever. "Oh, yeah, you sold your soul over to me and asked to marry Guster- what do you _think?_ Not much way to be a Chatty Kathy when you're passing out from blood loss, Spencer, although I'm sure if there was a way, you'd find it."

The psychic laughed a little, seeming to struggle to retain his focus. "Right, right. ...Thanks, Lass."

Lassiter grunted, again sidestepping sincerity and gratitude to return the comment with all the normalcy he could muster. "Yeah, whatever- Spencer, next time you think about putting yourself directly in the line of fire, you just remember how this feels. How it feels knowing _you_ owe _me_ your life- and just how many times I'm going to call that favor in from now on. I have the power to make your life a living hell and trust me, the more you owe me, the worse it'll get. I'm not about to go talking you into not bleeding to death in the middle of nowhere again, Shawn, so next time you decide getting shot is a good idea, call o'Hara. Got it?!"

Spencer just stared at him at that, the immature and childish glow to his features draining away in complete surprise. The psychic didn't say anything for a moment, clearly speechless- but then, the arrogant and smug twitch to his mouth was back, and Lassiter found himself wanting to punch him again.

"...Did you just call me Shawn?" he asked- voice reeking with smug satisfaction.

Yeah. Yeah, he wanted to punch him. "...No," he grunted, and Spencer smirked again.

"Aww, Lassie, I had no idea you cared. How sweet-"

"Nonsense," he snarled. "I'm just protecting my partner. For some reason she's got a soft spot for you. If you die she'll be a bit of a mess; I'm just trying to not have that happen, Spencer."

The psychic raised an eyebrow, features practically glowing with perverse pleasure now. "Mmmhmm. Right, Lassie."

"That's right."

Spencer's smirk twitched again, and Lassiter glared at him, wondering just how much further the damnable psychic was going to push him today. He raised a hand to rub his face through habit alone, then blinked at it in surprise, letting it hang in midair. He'd almost forgotten about the bandage wrapped around his palm, but seeing it now, the memory of teeth biting against his hand came rushing back.

Spencer hesitated again, always analytical gaze bouncing down like a hyperactive child's to land on his hand, then back to look uneasily around the room again. "Yeah... uh... sorry about the hand, dude."

Lassiter clenched his bandaged palm into a fist, feeling the row of deep teeth marks begin to ache. Yes, he'd been right earlier. This entire conversation was one he didn't want to have with anyone, ever. And especially not with Spencer. "...Don't need to get a tetanus booster, do I?" he managed as a weak jab, trying to derail the conversation again.

The psychic's mouth twitched into a grin. "Well, to be safe. You don't know where these pearly whites have been after all, Lassie... rawwwwwr..." The growl trailed off into a wink, and Lassie stared at him, horrified.

"Spencer?"

"Yes, Lassie-dear?"

"That was just about the most disturbing thing I've ever heard. And I'm definitely getting the booster now."


End file.
